


Insult-athon

by Bodhicitta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6968239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodhicitta/pseuds/Bodhicitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drinking game.  Sherlock is terrible at insulting....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insult-athon

"You ejaculate like a horse."

I've got him now, thought Molly.  But wait. He was unmoved.  He did not break his gaze from her.

"I do not consider that an insult."  His grey eyes blinked once.  But that one blink did not interrupt his laser-like focus.

"Well, you should," she corrected.  "It's a big...nasty...mess."

Sherlock sniffed, still not releasing her from his tractor-beam gaze.  "Anyway, how would _you_ know that?"  

Molly frowned.  She really would not know that.  And probably would never - unfortunately.  "Rumor has it," she whispered disappointedly.

"Well," Sherlock ventured, obviously stalling for time, "your breasts are shaped like, like, cupcakes!  Little ones."

"That is most certainly not....wait is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"You decide."

"But Sherlock - you're the one supposed to be insulting me.  You are not very good at this, are you?"

"Your turn!"  He fingered the liquor bottle that had signalled his arrival.  Earlier in the evening, around 10:45 pm, she padded into her kitchen in her fluffy pink slippers to get a cup of chamomile tea, and seeing the bottle on her kitchen counter, knew he was somewhere in her flat, probably snoozing on her couch.  Now the vessel of amber elixir sat half empty between them on her kitchen table.

"Oh, I know.  You say the most rude things imaginable at the most inopportune moments."

Too obvious.  That didn't even begin to chink his armor. He immediately came back with, "You are entirely too kind.  To everyone."

Molly's mouth fell open.  That one hit a bit close to home.  She assumed he meant her dealings with the world's only Consulting Criminal.  Her assumption was incorrect.  Sherlock meant that she was entirely too nice to him - to Sherlock.  He fully planned to take advantage of that later this evening, and at many future points in years to come.

"Drink," he ordered.  The rules were if an insult left the recipient speechless, he or she had to drink.  And not just a little sip, a real swig of the bourbon Sherlock had filched from the Diogenes Club.

She took one little sip of the bitter tincture and then squinched up her expression into a sour face.  He frowned, and nodded, urging her on.

"Stop being a baby and take your medicine."  

She sipped again, keeping her eyes locked on him, and continued to sip until he nodded his approval.  The liquor burned on its way down, and she was beginning to feel woozy.  Her clothes were too tight, everything seemed too close, but especially the Consulting Detective, who was seated right next to her.  Wait, wasn't he on the opposite side of the table from her when the game started?  No matter...insults, insults, she had to think of an insult, or keep drinking.

Finally something occurred to her.  "You couldn't keep a clean kitchen if your life depended on it."

He shrugged his shoulders  - observations concerning the state of disarray into which his living quarters had fallen phased him not at all.  "Your hair is the color of....nuts."

She laughed.

"Wait, why are you laughing?  Your.  Hair. Looks like some kind of nut," he stumbled, "a walnut, or...something."

"That is barely an insult, Sherlock."

"I know," he admitted under his breath.  "I'm just describing you."

"Well, your hair is unruly, unkempt, and silly, and...."

"Your eyes are too big for your face!" 

"...and not appropriate for a grown man.  They are?" she asked, a bit taken aback.

"You have cow eyes," he said, quite seriously.  "Like, some sort of big, soft, gentle.....mammal."

Molly slammed the glass down on the table.  "A ruminant!  You're calling me a ruminant?!?"  

"Yes.  Quite.  Eyes very like a deer, or a horse, or something like that.  A doe."

"Well, your eyes are too small for your face," she murmured, squinting her own eyes in order to discern - for once and for all - whether his eyes were blue, green, grey, or all of the above.

He put his hand up to his ear, thumb and pinky fingers extended, and made like he was talking into it.  "Ring-a-ling?  Oh, ring-a-ling?  It's the grammar school headmistress.  She wants her corduroy pants and flowered shirts and plaid jumpers back.  And hideous shoes.  She wants those back, too!"

She snorted.  "Oh, well, hello, hello, it's Victorian times calling - they want their elite, classist bullshit back!"

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, and before he could speak, Molly yelled, "Drink!"  And he obliged.  Abundantly.  He wiped his mouth, and stood up.  Maybe she had gone too far.  Maybe he was mad and was done playing this stupid game.  He swayed over to her, loomed over her really, and bent down, too close to her face.

"Your breasts are so small, I could fit an entire one into my mouth.  Easily."

Molly's mouth fell open at the image that provoked.  Sherlock grinned, unable to contain his momentary triumph at leaving her speechless.

"They, they...they're not _that_ small!" she protested.

He took a deep breath, and leaned closer to her, so close she could feel his hot breath on her face.  "Easily," he repeated.

She gulped, and he moved closer, bracing himself with both hands on the arms of her chair so he did not lose his balance and topple onto her with his full weight.  His lips wandered away from her face and down to her neck.

"Your neck is like a...swan's neck."

"You....it's not your turn.  You just went....it's my..."

But he had begun kissing that neck, cupping those breasts, and intoning rhyming couplets in honor of her eyes, and she lost her train of thought.  As he fell to his knees, his body surged forward and tried to lay ruin to the space between them.

"This contest has gone all to hell," she sighed, laying her arms on his shoulders as if knighting him with two ivory swords.

"We'll try again tomorrow," he murmured, nuzzling her neck too gently, tickling her and eliciting giggles.  "I have so many more complaints to lodge against those eyes."

 

 


End file.
